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Happy New Year, witches. Circle cast, candles lit, intentions set. If the past year taught me anything, it is that transformation is rarely aesthetic and almost never gentle. The year unfolded like a long eclipse. Everything felt muted, suspended, caught between what was and what refused to arrive. I was not broken, but I was
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Hello my magical coven — your girl has finally wandered back into the circle. I know it feels like I drifted off on a broomstick for a century, but I promise I never forgot about my loyal readers. Life just decided to toss me into a whirlwind, shake me up like a snow globe, and
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Well, well, well… look who’s crawled out of the cauldron. That’s right, witches. I’m here. Still alive, still chaotic, and still pretending to have my life together while the world burns like a clearance rack pumpkin candle. Oh, and in case you missed it… it was my birthday two days ago, which just so happened
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Hey witches, still alive and thriving in mild chaos. I’ve been letting my poor legs recover from the trauma of running (because apparently, that’s my thing now). Plot twist: I made it to 2 miles which is the longest I’ve ever gone without collapsing into a dramatic heap or needing a crypt keeper on speed
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I’m back, witches, and today we’re stirring up one of society’s nastiest little potions. You know the one: “If a boy is mean to you, it just means he likes you.” Spare me. That’s not love—it’s lazy, toxic conditioning disguised as playground wisdom. And it’s been spoon-fed to girls for generations like poison hidden in
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Hello, my beautifully cursed coven. I took a week off, not because I was busy conjuring demons or hexing exes (though, tempting), but because my inspiration packed her broomstick and ghosted me. So instead of waiting for a muse, I signed myself up for something arguably worse: Couch to 5k. Yes. Running. The devil’s cardio.
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Welcome back, my little cauldron of chaos. Today’s brew? A funeral story so absurd, even the Grim Reaper would’ve been in the corner whispering, “What the actual hell?” Now, funerals are supposed to be calm, respectful, and mournful. This one? More like Jerry Springer: Afterlife Edition. It started when my uncle passed. Sad part. Cue
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Welcome back, weary wanderers of this emotional graveyard I call a blog. If you’ve made it this far, you’re either a loyal soul, slightly nosy, or mildly entertained by the slow-burn chaos that is my personal growth arc. Either way—welcome. The cauldron’s hot, the tea is boiling, and my tolerance for fake friends has officially
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If you read my last post and thought, “wow, that was heavy”— Grab your broomsticks and brace yourselves. Because now we’re diving into the kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from emotional trauma (for once) but from… my actual body. Let’s talk about weight. Because nothing screams “fun blog post” like a conversation about the
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Alright, my little coven of chaos—grab your tea, your crystals, and maybe a black cat or two, because this tale comes with a warning. It’s not about what did happen—it’s about the moment something almost did. Close enough to make my bones rattle and my soul age about ten years in a single afternoon. This
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Witch, its been rough 